


Cunning and Curiosity

by SneakAttack29 (SurreptitiousFox245)



Series: Echoes [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls
Genre: Blind Character, Drabbles, F/M, Gen, Major Original Character(s), Other, POV Multiple, oneshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7334473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurreptitiousFox245/pseuds/SneakAttack29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Curiosity may have killed the cat, yes, but at this rate, it was liable to choke the wolf as well."</p><p>Oneshot containing Solas' thoughts on Lys from "All Fall Down". Set before/during chapter 15.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cunning and Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All Fall Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6948259) by [SneakAttack29 (SurreptitiousFox245)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurreptitiousFox245/pseuds/SneakAttack29). 



> So, I'm a horrible procrastinator. Check. I adore Solas to bits. Check. I reached a plot point in All Fall Down. Check. AFD is in a limited POV. Check. 
> 
> Solution: Write said plot point in Solas' POV!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

" _Curiosity is, in great and generous minds, the first passion and the last._ "

-Samuel Johnson

* * *

**He didn’t…the Shadow Broker was an _odd_ woman.**

            There simply wasn’t a more eloquent or roundabout way to state it, but something about such a blunt description seemed to suit her. She was frighteningly adept at stealth, yet she had a bizarre flair for the dramatic—that much was certain from her strange mask and attire alone. Not that her armor, what little actual armor there was over black cloth, in and of itself was abnormal. Quite the contrary, however what _was_ intriguing was how not the slightest patch of skin, twinkle of an eye, or strand of hair was ever within sight. Lys, as she insisted on being called, hid herself quite thoroughly. Too thoroughly. Far more so than her self-given job called for.

            Everything, from how she’d presented herself to the Seeker and the Herald at what remained of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, to how she’d _somehow_ (and rest assured, he was _still_ trying to figure out how she’d done it) infiltrated the hasty meeting with Cassandra, to how she’d so casually brushed off her ability to scale a building as efficiently as she had in Val Royeaux—it was showmanship if Solas had ever seen it. And he’d seen a lot. Showmanship mixed with a healthy dose of self-preservation shrouded in secrets and half-lies. It was a dance similar to his own, though with much more truth laced throughout. It was recognizable. It was _familiar_.

            Why that terrified him so much was anyone’s guess. Then again, if he could see it so clearly in _her_ , what was to say _she_ couldn’t spot it in _him_? He noticed how she flinched away from arrows and blades, shunned harm more than she should while also being calculatingly reckless. She avoided anything that would even remotely show her physical appearance, guarded it as jealously as the secrets she sold. It was a purposeful pattern of deceit masquerading as defense only recognizable to those searching for it. Those doing it themselves were most always the first to spot it in another.

            He supposed the fact that he could so easily spoke a lot about his own paranoia. There was a difference, however, in that his fears and suspicion were completely founded. Lys’ he didn’t know. Had no way of knowing. Her motivations were as mysterious as the woman herself.

            And she spoke _Elvhen’an_! Granted, it was on an even poorer scale than the Dalish clans, but if her story was to be believed and all other facts about her set aside, it alone spoke volumes of the woman’s intelligence. She’d been injured and taken in by a clan for perhaps a half year, maybe a full one. The Dalish hardly used the language enough to render an outsider immersed in it, so that she’d picked it up so quickly with such sparing, degraded use was rather impressive. She was horrible at it, of course. Most taught by the crumbled husks of the _elvhen_ tended to be. To add to the injury, from the one time she’d snapped off an insult to Madame de Fer in a jarring mispronounced Orlesian, it seemed Lys held no affinity for foreign languages aside from comprehension.

            Still, she was _smart_. She’d made a name for herself among the black market apparently almost single-handed, so he supposed she had to be, but the point was still there. Smart was dangerous. And assuming that she was too caught up in her own secrets to take any note of his was childish and naïve. The Dread Wolf was _not_ naïve. Nor was he a child.

            What Solas _was_ was patient and observant. He wouldn’t press—at least, not yet. Lys was still trying to shake the Nightingale and spent more time in her cabin or sequestered in a tent than she did socializing because of it. That was fine. He would watch her watch him and take action when she got too close so he could throw her off again. As the _Dalish_ were fond of saying, he had her scent. He was mindful. He was careful. And just in case, he’d ferret out her secrets before she did his, as a safety net of sorts. Solas didn’t necessarily _like_ blackmail, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at it. And it was better to have it and not need it than to find himself backed into a corner, desperately needing and not having. Still, he had resigned himself to a long wait.

            But then, _she slipped_. The Shadow Broker slipped a secret, trembling in indignation, and of all the people he had to thank for it, it was the childish quickling who unknowingly held _his_ magic in the palm of his hand. The Herald had made a decision to recruit the mages, something with which Lys for whatever reason vehemently disagreed (and then, before he’d fathomed why, he had been _grotesquely_ disappointed with her). In her anger, she’d switched tongues, foreign words _rolling_ out of her mouth like dewdrops on honeysuckle. They didn’t wrench themselves from her throat like they didn’t belong there, jerky and unsure. She was confident with them in a way only a native speaker could have been.

            What was…perhaps better, perhaps worse (it depended on how one wanted to look at it) was he didn’t recognize the language. He did…maybe _overuse_ the Fade excuse, but a decent portion of his knowledge _did_ come from dreaming world. And he had never— _ever_ —heard the words Lys had shouted, be he awake or asleep.

            She’d lied afterwards. Such _pretty_ lies she told, too, so fluid. Picked it up on the road, she claimed. Didn’t remember where and probably got most of it wrong. There’d been no hesitance in her voice, no slurring of unsure syllables to give her quick-cobbled story any weight. Maybe she could have tricked Alan or Cassandra or Varric, but regardless of how much he scorned the false title, there was something inherently futile about attempting to deceive a being once seen as a god of lies. Fleeing hadn’t helped her case, either.

            After that, he tried to find her in the Fade. If she was letting slip such things awake, imagine what could be gleaned from her dreams! Only, he _couldn’t_. Not because she wasn’t there or wasn’t dreaming. She was being _hidden_ by something which had a hold he (a dreamer— _the_ dreamer!) couldn’t break. Protected. Coveted. Sequestered. Use whatever word; it had alarmed him into wakefulness. This had been somewhere on the road between Haven and Redcliffe to meet with the rebel mages. He’d taken over watch for the rest of the night and the next three after that, studying her tent like a hawk for any signs of movement. There had been none. She was asleep and wholly entombed in whatever dream was being spun for her. Yet whenever he slipped into the Fade to search, she just _wasn’t there_. Her indent was, but it was deceptively empty. Something guarded her that was neither mage nor spirit nor demon.

            And it was powerful, whatever it was, to block her so effectively. It changed the game, wrestled control of it from his grasp. Spying on her dreams became not only morally reproachable, but downright impossible.

            _Unless_ , squeaked out some voice from the recesses of his mind, _control can be wrested_ back _._

            So he plotted. A word here, a gesture there, and it wasn’t difficult to weasel the Herald into conveniently noticing that aside from those first few nights, Lys actually slept quite fitfully, if at all. He silently manipulated the poor, unassuming human until _Alan_ was approaching _Solas_ , begging he do something to ease the troubles of his little information broker.

            There was a show of hemming and hawing a little. He knew a sleeping potion he could try, but she wouldn’t accept the help. She was too stubborn, too proud. _If_ he agreed—and only _if_ —he’d have an easier time of it if it were only he and she. They didn’t have the luxury of time, nor did they have a valid excuse. Lys was quick and would see through it. The list went on.

            Alan predictably took it as a challenge and ended up carting Sera back to Haven with him. He cited the strange time manipulation of the rifts at Redcliffe for why he left Solas behind— _someone_ needed to monitor the situation who knew what he was doing, and Solas probably would have volunteered for it had his own machinations not been in play. The idea wasn’t a bad one. Lys he claimed would be useful to have in the Hinterlands in case something came up that required entrance into the village again. Alexius might not take too kindly to Inquisition agents arriving without the Herald. She bought it, but only barely.

            It was a smaller deception on his part. Lys truly did _not_ take kindly to an offer of help, and he doubted it would have been any better with a camp full of people to overhear. The potion wasn’t a sleeping draught, not quite. It was a mild sedative mostly used in healing tents to put a patient requiring some form of extended procedure in a sort of in-between state. Odorless and tasteless, slipped into her food, it would leave her lucid enough to not trigger whatever protection it was she held, but it would also put her out enough so that she wouldn’t fight him when he dragged her the rest of the way down and into _his_ domain for a change. And he could _finally_ get some answers.

            Perhaps it was going a _bit_ too far, but the thought was dismissed almost before it came.

            Not that he ever got the chance—she could _smell_ it. He didn’t know _how_. Even he with his slightly better senses from being _elvhen_ could only somewhat make out the lemongrass and felandaris beneath the masking spell. The Shadow Broker claimed to be an elf (and he’d found no real fault with her story save that she was a few inches taller than the norm—not that such a thing was unheard of), and there was no way that she was _elvhen_. She didn’t have the feel of an immortal. But quickened elves had senses that were dulled throughout the generations and centuries. Marginally better than a human’s, but as with everything else of theirs, not on par to what they used to be.

            So he didn’t know how this _girl_ could discern what the potion smelled like, unless…and he narrowed his eyes because _there_ was a thought. If one of her other senses was bad, like hearing, then better sense of smell would reconcile the advantage that was lost. A gradual process, but if she’d been long enough with a deadened or weakened sense…

            Her hearing was fine (better than fine, even), so that really only left her sight. Bad vision explained why her mask and hood didn’t hinder her, as well. Perhaps it could even explain her natural suspicion. It was relieving. Still dangerous, but she was just mortal, albeit with a handicap that had naturally “corrected” itself. Not an ancient come to torment him for his folly.

            He relaxed a little and let her dodge the questions he hurled. What he pieced together only scratched the surface, he was sure, but he was content to relish in this small victory, if only for a bit. While not how he’d intended and while he still had every desire to figure out why she was blocked in the Fade, Solas knew more about Lys than she did him at the moment, and that was enough. He could figure out the rest later.

* * *

 

 **“Later” came much sooner than he had anticipated, as it turned out.** Three days, in fact. He had broken away from the monotony of camp, ostensibly to gather herbs, but he was really trying to find a way to adapt his scheme to rent Lys’ dreams away from what held them. The potion was probably out—while he didn’t _know_ if she would be able to taste it, the fact that she could scent it was disconcerting. A chance he wasn’t willing to take, as it were. He could try catching her before she completely fell asleep, but that was a small window and tricky enough. Besides, he also didn’t know how sensitive she was to magic. There were signs (she flinched every time he cast a barrier, albeit in shock as opposed to disgust), but nothing concrete. For all he knew, she’d notice enough and be able to shut him out before he got anywhere.

            It was some hours before he began making his way back, but he didn’t get more than a foot inside of the small campsite before becoming distracted by a prancing horse. It was the red-orange Forder with black legs that Lys had chosen as her own, a rig that she dutifully kept separated from the other horses. His own mare was on the opposite side of camp, a black and white Taslin, almost seeming to sneer at the other horse as if to say “what in blazes are you _doing_?” He wasn’t paying much attention to Theneras, though, because where she was tethered to a tree as he’d left her, Lys’ horse was _not_. And Lys was nowhere to be found.

            “Shh, _atisha, falon_ ,” he tried. What did she name the beast, again? Serah? Sapphire? Ah, yes, _Saffron_. “Saffron— _atisha_.” Solas managed to grasp the horse’s lead, which was still fixed in place, but Saffron suddenly jerked his head in the other direction. A wild cry tore from the animal’s throat, but it didn’t sound quite… _right_. Narrowing his eyes, the _elvhen_ gave the lead a sharp tug to attempt settling him.

            “ _Venavis!_ ” barked the elf, and amazingly, the Forder complied, albeit tersely. “ _Ahnas telam?_ ” Once more, Saffron pulled at his lead. And it shocked him because, if anything, that had been a _response_. It was still a strong yank on the horse’s part, but it was considerably subdued to what it had been. On top of that, doe brown eyes were almost _pleading_ with Solas for something the elf couldn’t discern. It was unnerving how it tugged at his memory. He’d _seen_ something like this before, but _where…_?

            And suddenly, it clicked. He sent a burst of mana through the animal to confirm it and relaxed his stance a bit more. Saffron was pulling a Justice and Anders, if he’d read Varric’s book correctly. A spirit. The more he thought about it, he began having his suspicions about Sera’s horse, as well, but he highly doubted it was the same type. He somehow couldn’t really fathom Purpose attaching itself to the Red Jenny. At all. It was probably Mischief or some variant thereof. The girl would have kittens if she knew.

            Actually, he narrowed his eyes. He had a hard time understanding what would compel a spirit to bind itself so completely with a horse in the first place. Much as he suspected had happened with the mage, there was no transition point to where Saffron ended and Purpose began. They were the same entity, just…more.

            It made for a very smart horse, however. There was no doubt in Solas’ mind now that something was amiss—the spirit part of Saffron would not have willingly gone with Lys if it didn’t feel a connection to the girl, and his behavior indicated trouble (he’d ponder how a spirit-possessed animal could even bond with the girl and her strange Fade issue _later_ ). “You’d do well to be wary around the others, _falon_ , however I believe there is a more pressing matter to attend?”

            Slowly, Saffron began to lead him off in a southward direction, weaving and winding over hills that got rockier as they went on. He was impressed the horse was keeping his footing so well. Solas spent several minutes scrutinizing Saffron’s face before figuring that he was smart enough to communicate anyway and over thinking it wouldn't get him anywhere. “Are you taking me to her?”

            A downward pull of his head. _Yes._

            He frowned. “Could she not come herself? Did she send you?”

            Two vigorous side-to-side motions. _No,_ _no_.

            “She’s injured,” he said, realization slapping him in the face. However, when the rig did an odd diagonal movement with his head, the notion became somewhat jumbled. It took a moment to decipher. _I don’t know._

            Trapped, then—it made little difference. With mages and Templars abound, as well as bandits and whatever else prowled the Hinterlands for prey, trapped verses injured didn’t matter. It all spelled trouble. Aside from Saffron, he was almost positive Lys had gone alone, which made her situation should anyone stumble upon her worse.

            And it appeared someone had, as he felt a strangely dark Templar’s smite several yards ahead just as Saffron refused to go any farther. Four rugged horses that had seen better days pranced a little at the sight of the other horse and darted pretty soon after. Solas crept forward to see what exactly it was they had been gathered around, only to freeze halfway there.

            ‘ _What_ was _that?!_ ’ he roared silently, stumbling. It had felt…he didn’t quite know how to describe it. It felt like magic, _was_ magic, but it was so _chaotic_. And it wasn’t even aimed at him! What he was feeling was the ambiance of a spell being cast, not the brunt of it. Beneath the surface, his own mana crackled and sputtered against it, wanting to rise but also being pushed back by whatever magic was being used. It wasn’t a Templar—where _were_ these people?

            He followed the sounds of a fight to, oddly enough, a large hole near the base of the hill. It was obscured by a bush, but clear once he’d gotten close enough to get a good look. Hearing a familiar cry of pain caused him to forego any careful planning of how to make his way into the cavern, and instead Solas just jumped in, using his mana as a cushion.

            The sight he was met with was _surreal_ , in a way. The backs of two Templars were to him, one gripping a dagger dripping with extraordinarily red blood. A glass one was uncaringly discarded several feet away, and a figure in tattered black was cowering on the ground in front of the knights. And it wasn’t _Lys_. _Lys_ had a mask, a hood, didn’t show an ounce of skin, and he was absolutely sure what skin she did have wasn’t _gold_.

            But this person’s _was_. Any leather armor that should have been there was either ragged or not there at all, her shirt was torn in several places and almost ripped clean off her right shoulder. The girl’s right sleeve below the elbow and glove were missing, too, the skin dark in what he guessed would pass for a rather ugly bruise. Her right pant leg was ripped across the thigh and pulled away from another swollen, bruised mass of flesh. Broken bones, but they weren’t as angry as they should have been. Hmm.

            And the face! Under disheveled blonde hair several shades darker than her skin, he could see pointed ears, but other than basic facial structure, that was where the similarity to an elf ended. Abnormally large, almond shaped eyes were set deep in their sockets at a _wicked_ slant, wide and a filmy, minty green color across sclera and iris that faded into a bright apple around the edges. It matched the blindness theory, but they were oddly focused. Her cheekbones were high and round, nose sharply pointed as were her brows which slanted. Lips were pursed thin over a sharp chin. All in all, that was the best description for this woman’s face— _sharp_.

            His observance only was able to last a moment before he got something else to ponder. The woman on the ground, quick as lightning, lifted a hand and _casted_. A sharp spike of ice flew from her hand and straight into the face of the Templar nearest her. He dropped like a rock, and there was barely time to process how her magic matched the magic he’d felt earlier before the second knight was lunging, knife in his hand raised high. It took barely a thought for Solas to snap-freeze him, though his mana responded in a sluggish manner. It rolled and boiled beneath the surface, objecting to the presence of the other magic, but it also rejected the idea of trying to fight it. _Odd_ was a word he was using far too often lately, but it _fit._

            A moment later, and the girl had bashed the frozen Templar into a shower of tiny pieces using the fallen one’s sword. She dropped it immediately after with a loud clatter of steel on stone, sinking back onto her hands. She was bleeding in several places that he could see (red blood, he noted with a small sense of bemusement—he’d expected different from her skin color), her injuries consistent with a tumble down the hill.

            Solas took a cursory glance across the cavern he found himself in, looking for other people. There was no one else, and the corpses were all...he grimaced, red-lyrium-encrusted Templars ( _that_ was certainly new). It left the conclusion that the girl was indeed Lys, and that made his stomach turn with apprehension. Her appearance explained _so much_ , but it also left so many questions unanswered. His only solace was that he knew she wasn’t possessed. If she even could be. He’d be able to tell if she was. Or he should.

            He didn’t even know anymore.

            “… _Lethallan_ …?” he questioned, tentative. He watched as she froze, processed what he’d said, recognized it, and began panicking. Luckily for him, she tempered it before the emotion got out of hand.

            She squeaked, “Solas.” It wasn’t a question—she knew who he was. And her voice confirmed it; this alien girl was Lys. She sounded strange not muffled by her mask. Her voice was deep and gravely for a woman, but not quite as foggy when unobstructed. "How did you find me?"

            She was right to be cautious, and he expected it. He gave some vague answer about her horse leading him, to which she was predictably startled. There oddly was no indication beyond shock that she found the situation entirely out of place, but there was simultaneously no evidence that she understood Saffron was different in such a distinguishing way. Itself, this wasn't strange. With how her magic felt, with how she didn't dream normally for whatever reason--he was amazed she knew what little she did about "normal" magic. She wouldn't make the connection between "freakishly smart" and "spirit-bonded" without more nudging than he was providing.

            What _was_ she?!

            Solas got his answer after he slipped and habitually called Lys " _lethallan_ ", the designation he'd given her those months ago upon finding that she was an elf and to some extent understood the language. A small part of him had recognized it as a kindness, giving her something remotely familiar in a situation where she was initially treated as an enemy just for a misunderstood title that had been assumed for her. He'd...felt _sorry_ for her in a way. And regardless of what the Dalish liked to believe, he was far from the heartless, giggling maniac they portrayed him to be.

            Varric's nickname _notwithstanding._

            "I'm not an elf," she'd bemoaned, slouching against the wall of the cave in a pained manner not entirely physical. She actually seemed _ashamed_ of what she was, and he'd bet coin it went beyond the guilt of simply not being what she'd made others to believe her to be if he were the betting type.

            Solas found some interesting tidbits of information as he gently prodded her into telling him. She was of a race called Altmer, something she also claimed translated to "High Elf". All looked similar to her, sans blindness, apparently, which was a touchy subject judging by the harsh flinch when he'd brought it up. Lys had at least some capacity to heal herself with her magic and had tried a thing akin to combat first aid during her fight with those Templars. Magic as he knew it burned her as much as her own challenged his. It was something to do with the energies being opposites, if he had to guess. She felt as if someone had stuffed magic into a Tranquil--for someone who saw every inhabitant of the shattered world Thedas had become as such, the effect was unnatural and awkward, like a poor re-binding of a thread that had been severed. However, she couldn't fix her eyes for some reason and wasn't, as it turned out, completely blind.

            How that was possible, he didn't know.

            The most interesting, though, was that she believed herself to be the last of her kind. A sentiment that...struck him a little harder than it should. Also, she claimed origin from another world...one that had apparently been destroyed.

            Solas didn't know who was more relieved at the subject change: Lys or himself. The facts about the Broker that he had coveted were hitting far too close to home for his own comfort. He was cursing his own curiosity.

            Curiosity may have killed the cat, yes, but at this rate, it was liable to choke the wolf as well.


End file.
